“That’s where he’s right,” said Ellen.  “I’m sorry you’re not coming again, Mrs. Burke.”

“So am I, Ellen, for I need the money, but I’ll stand by my boy.”

“You iron real beautiful.  I’ve heard Mrs. Preston say so often.  She won’t get nobody that’ll suit her so well.”

“If you hear of anybody else that wants help, Ellen, will you send them to me?”

This Ellen faithfully promised, and Mrs. Burke went home, sorry to have lost her engagement, but not sorry to have stood up for Andy, of whom she was proud.

Andy was at home when she returned.  He had found enough to do at home to occupy him so far.  The next day he meant to go out in search of employment.  When his mother got back she found him cutting some brush which he had obtained from the neighboring woods.

“There, mother,” he said, pointing to a considerable pile, “you’ll have enough sticks to last you a good while.”

“Thank you, Andy, dear.  That’ll save Mary and me a good deal of trouble.”

There was nothing in her words, but something in her tone, which led Andy to ask: 

“What’s the matter, mother?  Has anything happened?”

“I’ve got through working for Mrs. Preston, Andy.”

“Got through?  For to-day, you mean?”

“No; I’m not going to work there again.”

“Why not?”

“She complained of you, Andy.”

“What did she say, mother?” asked our hero, listening with attention.

“She said you ought not to have struck Godfrey.”

“Did you tell her he struck me first?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what did she say, thin?”

“She said that you ought not to have struck him back.”

“And what did you say, mother?”

“I said my Andy wasn’t the boy to stand still and let anybody beat him.”

“Good for you, mother!  Bully for you!  That’s where you hit the nail on the head.  And what did the ould lady say then?”

“She told me I needn’t come there again to work.”

“I’m glad you’re not goin’, mother.  I don’t want you to work for the likes of her.  Let her do her own ironin’, the ould spalpeen!”

In general, Andy’s speech was tolerably clear of the brogue, but whenever he became a little excited, as at present, it was more marked.  He was more angry at the slight to his mother than he would have been at anything, however contemptuous, said to himself.  He had that chivalrous feeling of respect for his mother which every boy of his age ought to have, more especially if that mother is a widow.

“But, Andy, I’m very sorry for the money I’ll lose.”

“How much is it, mother?”

“Seventy-five cents.”

“I’ll make it up, mother.”

“I know you will if you can, Andy; but work is hard to get, and the pay is small.”

“You might go back and tell Mrs. Preston that I’m a dirty spalpeen, and maybe she’d take you back, mother.”